Wolf's Howl
by RhinoGhost
Summary: Why had he woken the small nation so early in the morning? Where were they going? There where other questions, but the only thing Canada knew was that usually happy Frenchman was troubled by something.


The young country opened his eyes sleepily. He felt a slight weight on his shoulder slightly shaking him. A young blonde man with blue eyes greeted him. He shot up.

"Papa!" The young country cheered, hugging the man around the neck.

"'Ello Matthew." He said in a thick French accent. He pulled away and looked at the country of France, or who he liked to call papa. The man was still wearing his war uniform, which was now torn and stained in different places. His usual beard stuble was now thicker and full faced, his blonde hair looked dull, his blue eyes were watery, tired, and hurt.

"What's wrong?" Matthew asked, now sitting crossed-legged on his bed.

"We need to go on a little trip. Oui?" France said sadly. He rubbed the boys head, stood up, and walked out of the room. Matthew Bonnefoy, got out of bed and got dressed. He then went to remove a suitcase from his closet, and noticed it wasn't there. He looked around the room and noticed it next to his door. He walked over and tried to pick it up but it was heavy. He hefted the suitcase over his small shoulders and struggled out of his room to the front door. France was standing there a hand covering his face, a bag in the other, his shoulders shaking.

"Papa? What's happening?" France quickly uncovered his face, and removed a soiled hankerchief from his pocket and ran it over his face. He crouched down and rubbed the little boys head, trails down his face where the tears had washed away some of the grime.

"I told you, Matthew. We're going on a little trip." He reached out for the doorknob and tried to turn it. His whole body was shaking. He slammed his hand against the door and cursed. "Just a little trip." he whispered. The door flew open. Cold air and snow made their way into the house. France leaned down and grabbed Matthew's hand, giving it a small squeeze as he walked out the door. Matthew remained silent as they walked. He watched as silent tears poured down his fathers face. No Francis wasn't really his father, but he had raised Matthew. He remembered when he had first met the Frenchman.

He was leaning against a maple tree, shivering. Snow piled around him and wolves howled. Night was coming quickly, and for a normal little boy there was little chance of survival. Yet he wasn't a normal little boy. He was the country of Canada. Even if he was immortal he could still get hurt. A pack of wolves could tear him apart and leave him for dead, but he wouldn' die. He would lie there in unbearable pain waiting for his body to regenerate. He looked at a scar on his arm from last time he had faced the wolves. He felt tears form in his eyes and huddled closer to the tree, hoping to block the bitter bite of the cold wind.

He thought of warm pancakes covered in sticky maple syrup, warmed apple cider, a warm bed, crackling fire, and kind woman holding him in her lap stroking his hair lovingly. He hoped the thoughts of warmth and comfort would help. It did the exact opposite. He felt more cold and alone than ever. He stood up slowly, bracing himself against the tree.

He took a step away from the tree, using one hand to balance himself. He heard a howl, much closer this time. A sharp intake of breath, and he started to run. He heard the trees and bushes fluttering behind. The wolves had found him, yet again. He ran as fast as his small legs could carry him. Another howl, almost right next to him. He climbed over logs and rocks. Then he reached the front of a tall cliff. He grabbed on to a rock that jutted out and pulled himself up. He looked behind him, a pack of wolves now circling him. They almost looked amused at his feeble escape. They licked there lips remembering how his blood had tasted. He kept climbing, a wolf lunged and then a heavenly noise sounded. The sound of a gun, the howl of a stricken wolf, the thud of the wolf collasping into the snow, and the sound of the rest of the pack running away.

Matthew slowly lowered himself to the ground, and walked over to the wolf. He looked at it's eyes, wide open and lifeless. He examined the body, still and twisted in mid strike. He reached out to touch the beast.

"Don't!" a thickly accented voice commanded. He looked over to where it had come from. Dressed in military clothing, was a young man holding a smoking musket. Matthew shrank away in fear. He had only seen humans from a distance. They didn't really like countries. The man noticed his sudden panic, and slowly crouched down and set the gun in the snow. "It's okay. I am not going to 'urt you." He held his arms open. Matthew carefully walked over to the man. He reached out with a shaking frostbitten finger and touched the mans chest. It was warm. He rushed into the mans arms, welcoming some sort of warmth. The man pulled away, his eyes filled with concern. "Who are you?" he asked.

The boy chewed his bottom lip nervously. The last time he told someone what he was, he was chased out of town. "I'm...Canada." He whispered. He looked the man in the man was clearly shocked. What was he going to do? Leave him? Shoot him? A big grin slowly made it's away across the mans face. "I'm the country of France." Matthew blinked and rubbed his tired eyes. "You need sleep." France said. The little boy nodded and leaned against the country. France removed his coat and wrapped it around the little boy, who was too tired to protest. He carefully picked him up and carried him out of the woods.

Matthew awoke in a soft bed, a fire crackling in the fireplace. He looked to his side to see a cup with steam rising out of it. He carefully picked it up, his hands were now bandaged. He took a small sip, and a small smile appeared - apple cider.

He heard footsteps coming toward his room. His door opened to reveal the man from earlier, a steaming stack of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup in one hand. Matthew's eyes went wide.

"'Ello. 'Ow are you feeling?" he asked. He walked over and set the plate of pancakes on the bed.

"I'm much better, thank you." Matthew said quietly. He slowly reached for the knife and fork on the side of the plate, but then withdraw his hands.

"It's okay. They are for you." the Frenchman insisted. Matthew took the utensils in his hands and slowly cut off a piece of pancake. He brought the fork to his mouth and bit down. The light and fluffy mixture was sweet and buttery. It melted on his tongue as the sponged up maple syrup escaped from the cake. He felt tears form in his eyes and gently brushed them away with his arm. He took another bite, tears now streaming down his face. He barely remembered the last time he had eaten real food. He then felt a hand on his head. It slowly rubbed his hair. He looked at France, tears in his eyes and mouth full of pancake. The Frenchman was smiling, but it was a sad smile.

Matthew swallowed, "Thank you."

France moved his hand, and leaned forward and folded his hands in his lap. "Why were you out there?"

Matthew looked at the pancakes and slowly started to cut another piece. "Nobody likes me. They don't like the fact that I've looked like this for so long. They don't like that I heal so quickly, and they don't like the decisions I make." He brought another bite to his mouth, and chewed slowly. He always tried being nice. He was naturally gentle and timid, but that just gave the other kids the chance to pick on him.

France leaned back, and put his hands behind his head and crossed his legs. "Oui, I remember when that happened to me. It was 'orrible. I'm lucky I survived. And you know that you are too. This place is much colder than my home land." Then he looked Matthew straight in the eye. "What is your human name?" he asked.

"Matthew," he whispered.

"No last name? My name is Francis Bonnefoy, I 'ave never meet a country with no last name." Matthew swallowed the last bite of pancake, and set down the plate and utensils. Francis took the plate from him, and the cup from the bedside table and stood up. "You need rest." he said. Matthew layed down on the pillows and his eyes drooped. His last concious memories were Francis leaning down and kissing him on the forehead, and whispering. "Good night, Matthew Bonnefoy."

Now Francis and Matthew were trudging through the snow. Matthew keeping a tight grip on Francis's hand. He looked ahead and saw a giant mansion, lights on inside. "We are almost there." Francis said bitterly. When they arrived at the door, Francis pounded against the door, and yelled greetings and then curses in French. They waited a few minutes, and then heard footsteps. Francis' grip tightened. The door opened to reveal a well dressed young man, with bushy eyebrows, messy blonde hair, and a snarky smirk.

"Hello, France." He said in an English accent.

"'Ello, England." He said, venom in his voice.

The English man leaned down and looked Matthew straight in the eye, a cheshire grin spread across his face."You must be Canada. The both of you please do come in. Everyone is already here." Francis lead him inside, and England closed the door behind him. He walked them to a parlor room. Men in fine suits sat around a table examining a document. They looked up acknowledging them with slight nods. England rested a hand on Matthew's shoulder, which made him flinch. He looked up at the man eyes big. "Upstairs there is a door on your right, you can go play with your brother." Matthew merely nodded and rushed out of the room. Francis had told him that he had a brother. America was his name, also known as Alfred Jones. considering what France had told him about Alfred, he wasn't that excited to meet him. He pushed open the door to see another boy that looked almost exactly like himself. Yet, his hair was much shorter and didn't have a curl, and his eyes were blue not violet. He also looked older. In his teens, Matthew still looked ten maybe eight. Alfred was playing with a toy shot gun, and was firing corks at a small dart board that was pinned to the wall.

"Hello." Matthew whispered. The boy didn't even acknowledge him. "Bon jour!" He said, a bit louder, hoping that the French might catch his attention.

The other boy turned to him. "Oh, hi! I'm America." He held out his hand. Matthew took it and they shook hands.

"I'm Canada." Then he felt a dull thunk against his head. America had thrown a cork at him.

"You're French." he said and then returned to his shooting.

"Yes, but..." he trailed off. The other boy, his brother, wasn't paying attention. He left the room, deciding to explore and look for the library. He searched the whole top floor, nothing but bathrooms and bedrooms. Then he walked down the steps. He then heard the voice of Francis' and froze. He was yelling loudly in English and cursing in French.

"I won the battle fair and square now just sign the papers!" England yelled. Matthew had filtered out several cuss words. Several people spoke up in agreement. Matthew silently walked down the stairs and peered into the room where everyone was. Francis was sitting at the head of the table, pen clutched in hand and shaking violently. England stood above him, looking extremely annoyed and muttering under his breath. Francis slowly raised the pen and scrawled it across the paper. A portly man to his right took the paper from him, raised a seal and stamped the crimson wax on the paper. The low thud of the seal hitting the paper echoed around the silent room.

The man stood and rolled up the paper and put it in his jacket. He turned to England and shook his hand. "Congratulations Mr. England. The country of Canada is now under your rule."

Matthew's heart stopped. He knew that he wouldn't be returning home with Francis. He felt tears trickle down his cheeks. The other men got up and left the room. Matthew quickly pressed himself against the wall. Everyone had gone, except for Francis and England.

Then Matthew stepped into the door frame, tears now staining his clothing, hugging himself. "Papa?" he whispered. Francis had buried his head in his hands, but when he heard Matthew his head shot up.

"Matthew. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." he said. He got up and walked over to the boy, arms outstreched like the first time he had meet the boy. Matthew ran into his arms. Francis rubbed his back and whispered comforting words and apologies in French.

The both of them heard England curse. "Hurry up. I don't want you in my house too long." Matthew sniffled, as Francis pulled away from the hug. The bag from earlier at his side. He removed a white object from the bag. It was a stuffed polar bear.

"This is for you..." he said and gently handed the boy the bear. Matthew buried his face into the bears soft fur. It smelled like roses and maple syrup. "I'll miss you Matthew." Francis said, his voice cracking. Matthew looked up at him with violet eyes and tear stained cheeks. " I'll miss you, too." he whispered. Francis gave him one last hug, and stood up. He didn't say goodbye to the Englishman. He quickly walked away, flung the door open and slammed it shut. The wind howled, making Matthew flinch. It sounded like a wolf, and his papa wasn't around to protect him.


End file.
